Do or Die (8 page)

The secretary was called back from her trance by his cough. She raised startled gray eyes, which made her look even younger than her probable twenty years. A pretty secretary, he thought. My first clue to Halton's character.

“I'd like to see Professor Halton, please.”

“Uh…” she wavered, until he produced his badge. “He spoke to two detectives earlier,” she supplied hastily. “After that, he went out.”

He took down her name in his notebook. “Could you tell me where the professor went?”

“I didn't ask. We're all upset, sir. Professor Halton told us to take the day off.”

“Is there anyone here from his staff?”

“Umm...” Her hands fluttered to her face distractedly. “I could check for you. Mr. Difalco was here earlier, he might still be here. Dr. Miller's in his office, I think.”

“Is Raquel Haddad here?” He knew she wasn't—she would be in Beirut by now—but he wanted to see her reaction. For a split second her eyes widened, before she drew her brows down over them in a frown.

“Miss Haddad doesn't really work here. She's only been helping out a bit with the research.”

“Helping who?”

The brows drew lower. “I wouldn't know. I'm Dr. Halton's secretary, and I don't keep track of all the projects his students are doing. I only type their research when it's part of the book.”

“What book?”

“Dr. Halton's book on language mechanisms in the brain. All the research goes into it.”

“So all his students are doing research on his theory?”

“Well…” Her gray eyes roamed up the hall nervously. “I'd prefer you talk to Dr. Halton himself about it.”

He raised an innocent eyebrow. “Why?” “I'm just the secretary. Dr. Halton told us it would be better if he handled all the police and press.”

“But he's not here, and I need information. How long did Raquel Haddad work for Jonathan Blair?”

The girl's eyes flitted nervously up and down the corridor. “Maybe you should talk to Dr. Miller.”

“Who's he?”

“Dr. Halton's research fellow. I'll get him.” She scurried down the hall and disappeared into an office without a backward glance. Curious, he padded down the hall until he could make out what she was saying.

Her voice was breathy, anxious. “Dr. Halton said specifically
that people were not to talk to anyone about his or Jonathan's work. He was afraid the press would distort things.”

“But this is a policeman, right?” A male voice responded.

“Yes, but you know I don't like to go against what Dr. Halton says. And the detective was asking about Raquel. Oh David, would you talk to him? Please? Dr. Halton wouldn't get mad at you.”

“I don't know about that right now.” Green heard a scraping sound and a sigh. “Fine, show him in.”

David Miller was a paunchy, balding man of medium height with stooped shoulders and pale blue eyes. No thick black hair, no mustache. Not my first choice for killer of the year, Green thought as he introduced himself. Miller gave a nervous laugh as he shuffled forward, head bent and eyes averted.

“An inspector! I guess I'm going up in the world. It was a plain detective this morning.”

“I'm just verifying some new information. You're Dr. Miller?”

“Dave. The doctor handle is kind of new, and it still makes me nervous. Besides, for the money I make…”

Green made notes. “What's your position here?”

“I'm a post-doctoral fellow working under Dr. Halton. Which means I'm a highly educated gofer, but I'm so grateful to work with him that the money doesn't matter. Besides,” Miller ran his stubby fingers over his bald spot, “I've been penniless for so long, I wouldn't know what to do if I found a real job.”

“Halton's a real hotshot, eh?”

Miller hesitated a fraction of a second. “Oh yes. Tops in his field in Canada and doing some fascinating research.”

“What can you tell me about Raquel Haddad?”

“Raquel?” Crimson suffused his doughy face. “I—I hardly
know her. She was in my class—I teach one undergraduate course—and she helped out in the labs sometimes.”

“Was she friendly with anyone here?”

“I didn't notice. I told you, I hardly know her.”

“What was her connection to Jonathan Blair?”

“I believe he hired her to help him with some data collection.”

“That's all?”

“That's all I know.”

“They weren't involved?”

Miller picked at a brown stain on his jeans. Green saw that his fingers were quivering very slightly. “Some people thought so, but I never saw it. Jonathan was a straight kind of guy. He took his work seriously.”

“Do you know if Raquel had any friends or family nearby?”

Miller licked his finger and rubbed at the stain. “I never paid any attention. But Rosalind—Miss Simmons, my associate, might know. Her office is three doors down.” He stood up as if to escort Green.

“One last question, Dave. Can you think of anyone who might have wanted Jonathan Blair dead?”

Miller's nostrils flared, and for a fraction of time he seemed to vacillate. But then he shook his head with vigour and certainty.

He makes a lousy liar, Green thought to himself as he left. Not enough practice. He's one of those guilty-conscience types who can't look you in the eye when they're hiding something.

Green was wondering what it might be as he walked back down the hall. Just when he was about to knock on the third door, he was stopped by voices within, the voices he had heard murmuring earlier, only now they were raised in anger.
Quickly he switched on his pocket tape recorder.

“That's a cheap thing to say, Joe!” “Oh, come on, we all know why he was murdered.” The first voice was shrill, the second rich and sensual.

“I know no such thing. Jonathan was still in love with Vanessa.”

“This isn't about love, it's about the cock, sweetheart. The cock calls the tune. But you know that, don't you?”

“You're such a pig.”

The man laughed, a low, mocking chuckle. He murmured something which Green couldn't hear, and the woman exploded.

“Get out of my office! Or I'll scream. I swear it!”

“What, and you think lover boy will come running?”

“You reduce everything to sex, don't you. Sex and power.”

“What else is there?”

“This. Dr. Halton's work.”

“Like you said, baby. Sex and power.”

“That's your warped view.”

“Okay, then why didn't you tell the police what's going on here?”

“Because...because it isn't relevant.”

“Bullshit,” the man hissed. “It's because you don't want to lose your goddamn job with Halton. And because—” he paused for drama, “you're not sure if Miller did it.”

“I am! I am!” she raged. Before Green had a chance to jump away, she threw open the door.

Green found himself face to face with a pair of horrified blue eyes in a tangle of brassy curls. Behind her, a dark-eyed young man leaped to his feet, the last traces of a sardonic smile fleeing from his face. No mustache, but rich black hair.

The man found his voice first. “Who the fuck are you!”

Green pushed past the blonde and strode into the room. “Inspector Green of the Ottawa Police,” he said, flipping open his notebook. He left his pocket tape recorder on, which he sometimes used to record interviews secretly, but the notebook was necessary for court. “Your names, please.”“Can you just barge in here and ask us that?” the young man blustered.

“I'm investigating a homicide. You're within your rights to refuse to cooperate, but then, of course, I'd probably wonder why. And I can get pretty nosy.”

Green was always amazed how well that subtle threat worked with bullies. He was afraid he'd look ludicrous waving his badge around and sounding like Columbo, but somehow the effect transcended the freckles, the nose and the Zellers attire. Meekly, the two identified themselves. Joseph Difalco and Rosalind Simmons.

Green gestured to Difalco. “You wait here while I take Miss Simmons' statement outside. If you both cooperate, we'll be through in no time.”

The two exchanged one long, wordless stare before Rosalind turned and marched out the door. Green chose an empty office next door and gestured her to a seat. She was clearly nervous, but she remained standing and fixed him with a stubborn stare.

“I overheard some interesting things in there,” he began softly. “I think you'd better begin by telling me what the hell is going on here.”

He could almost see her mind racing backwards over the conversation, trying to recall what she and Difalco had let slip. To buy herself time, she chose to be obtuse.

“Going on? Joe and I were just talking, officer.” She widened her eyes. “Not what you think.”

“I sure didn't think that,” Green replied drily. “Not from what I heard. So don't play me for a fool, Miss Simmons. I haven't the time for it. And don't think that I'm dumb just because I'm a cop. Stop batting the eyelashes, sit down, and tell me straight why you think Miller did it.”

“Did what?”

“Murdered Jonathan Blair.” “I don't think that!” she gasped in horror. “Why should you...?”

“Difalco said you weren't sure if Miller did it.”

She frowned, and her bewilderment seemed genuine. Then abruptly the memory fell into place. “Oh! No, not the murder. Nothing to do with the murder, just some professional matter. Joe was just taunting me.”

“What professional matter?”

“It's…it's a long story and really very trivial.”

“Difalco didn't make it sound trivial.”

“Joe can't stand the fact that I won't jump into his bed like everyone else. He takes pot shots at me every chance he gets.”

Green sat down in the swivel chair opposite her. “I'm waiting.”

She studied the floor, gathering her forces. Finally, she took a deep breath. “It's just professional rivalry. Between Joe and Dave. Joe has been Professor Halton's student for six years, and Dave just came last year. But Dave already has his Ph.D. from Stanford.” She cast him a look that could have been disdain. “That's a top university in the States. Anyway, Joe couldn't stand that. He said some of his research data disappeared, and he accused Dave of deliberately erasing it from his computer.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “So that Joe wouldn't get finished so soon, I
guess. Joe's problem is that he assumes everyone thinks like him. He thinks Dave would care if he succeeded, that Dave would be jealous of his success. That's nonsense. Dave is a classic scientist—nose in his books, clueless about the world around him. Naïvely thinking everyone is as passionate about truth and discovery as he is. He honestly thinks Joe cares about his research for the light it will cast on the world.”

“But he doesn't?”

She snorted. “Joe cares about the three letters after his name and how the name ‘Halton' will look on his résumé.”

“Does Halton know about the disappearing data?”

“Oh yes. What would be the point of the accusation if Halton didn't know about it? But I don't know what Halton did about it. He kept it under wraps. That's his style. He solved it, I'm sure, and I suspect he read Joe the riot act in private, but no one's ever going to know. No hint of a scandal to threaten his grant money.”

“So Halton would believe Dave over Joe?”

She paused, her brows knitted. “I hope so. Joe's been with him for six years, and I think Professor Halton has a soft spot for him, but I don't think he's naïve.” She shook her head impatiently. “I don't mean to sound all negative about Joe, officer. He's an obnoxious pig, and he can't handle any woman with an IQ over 90, but he's a bright guy. Quick-witted and charming in a boys' locker room kind of way. Men like him.”

“He doesn't sound like the kind of guy you'd find in an Ph.D. program, though,” Green observed. “More likely law or MBA.”

Surprise flickered briefly in her eyes, and when she spoke, he thought he detected more respect. “I have wondered about that myself. But you don't get a straight answer out of Joe. He says it's because he gets the best pickings of the female
undergraduate groupies who cluster around Halton.”

“A macho front to hide a serious mind?” Green replied with a laugh. Rosalind laughed too, briefly forgetting why she was there, and some of the wariness left her eyes.

“How did Jonathan Blair fit into this dispute?”

The wariness returned. “Not at all. That's why Halton didn't want the incident mentioned. His reputation is important to him, and Jonathan Blair didn't work with either Joe or Dave.”

“Who did he work with?” “Halton. Dave has a couple of graduate students helping him, but most of us work directly under Halton, doing our own research related to his theory. We sometimes have assistants, usually Honours students. Jonathan had…” She hesitated briefly.

“Raquel Haddad?”

She smiled, but without humour. “Raquel kind of made the rounds, in more ways than one. She was one of those undergraduate groupies I mentioned earlier. For some women, power is a great aphrodisiac.”

“And did Professor Halton sample the offerings?”

She eyed him levelly. “I thought we were talking about Jonathan Blair.”

“Jonathan Blair always seems to be the least important person in my conversations about him.”

Her eyes narrowed intently as she inspected the idea. “What a curious observation,” she said. “But you know, it's quite true. When Jonathan first came, he created quite a stir. I mean, he had a lot of star qualities—loads of money, good looks, brains, an impressive integrity. But in a way, drama plays around him. He's always rock stable, calm, unobtrusive.”